Page 41 of The Kiss Class

With hesitant steps, Cara makes her way to the counter and takes a sip of the eggnog. Not going to lie, I’m watching her lips. When a little of the holiday drink remains on her cupid’s bow, I dab it with my thumb.

A gentle tremor ripples through her. Her teeth nibble her lip and then her eyes search mine briefly before she looks away, cheeks blazing.

My vision fixes on the small gap between us as moments like this start to stack up. Moments that could become more.

The Christmas playlist changes abruptly from a low croon to a silly song sung in a squeaky voice about wanting a hippopotamus for Christmas.

I bring the cookies over to the coffee table along with the bag of decorations. “Let’s see what you brought.”

Cara says, “I was going to get both multi-colored lights and white, but they were out of the colorful ones.”

“I’m Team White Lights on the tree.”

“I’d have pegged you for a colorful lights guy. Why choose, right? It’s like a variety pack.”

It doesn’t take a graduate degree to get the subtext. She’s taking a jab at my reputation with women.

“Why not choose?” My gaze lingers on Cara for a long moment.

Stringing the lights is a one-person job, considering the size of the tree, but I have Cara hold one end of the light strand while I find the nearest plug. They glow, illuminating her soft features. My pulse thumps.

While hanging the lights, I say, “I’ve never invited anyone except for Micah and Ted up here. They’d be impressed.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“That they’d be impressed or?—?”

She plants her hand on her hip. “You expect me to believe you’ve never had a woman up here?”

I don’t mention Cecilia breaking in because I don’t want to be reminded of the drama. “Not willingly and not even my mother. She doesn’t like flying, and it’s a long trip from Quebec.”

Cara rolls her eyes. “Yeah. Sure. Right. You do realize Santa’s making a list and checking it twice. Lying will probably get you in the naughty column.”

“We’re both guilty of fibbing.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“But I was telling the truth about not, uh, havingguestsup here.”

“I’ve seen you on social media with dozens of different women.”

I smirk. “You’ve been checking me out online, huh?”

She shifts from foot to foot.

My eyebrow arches.

Her arms fold in front of her chest. “Maybe. So what?”

I want to admit how that makes me feel, but first I have another truth to tell and a myth to dispel.

Dropping onto the couch, I pick up a cookie but don’t take a bite. “Cara, I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere. My accent, speaking French and English, and the way I look weren’t anything special. I was just another kid who played hockey.”

“My dad saw something special in you. Coming from him, that’s high praise.”

“Yes, but I was pretty sheltered. My father showed me theropes for how to run the farm if the whole hockey dream didn’t work out. That was the backup plan. I was a later draft to the NHL. But everything changed after that.”

She leans in slightly as if genuinely curious.

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